


The Bunker

by InsidiousWaywardGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Memories, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29128071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsidiousWaywardGirl/pseuds/InsidiousWaywardGirl
Summary: All these remnants of a different time.A life, a family, a home.That’s what this place had been.A home.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	The Bunker

The lights flickered off and the door slammed shut with a loud click.   
All was quiet and still and the bunker held its breath, settled in. Waiting, waiting, waiting.  
It had seen so many tragedies, lost so many inhabitants.   
Its secrets lay dormant, and slowly, over the years, they began to grow a layer of dust.   
So did everything, as a matter of fact.  
The kitchen remained empty, devoid of the life and laughter that it had once held.   
No footsteps echoed on the spiral stairs like they used to.   
The books and their knowledge, all the years of compiled stories and lore remained unused. Still stacked neatly on their shelves, their tales remained untold.  
Faded with age and use, the runes on the walls were no longer needed as they had once been.   
The telescope that was rarely ever used stood proudly on it’s pedestal, half obscured by the red curtain.   
Men of Letters computers remained silent, no telltale hum of technology whirring and blinking lights.   
Shadows gathered in the corners of all the rooms.

There were the physical things, of course.   
The long tables and chairs in the library remained empty and unused, the initials carved in the wood remained untouched. As did the marks on the floor from where Jack had stuck a knife years previous. The faint scrape marks on the floor from where Mary had shifted the table over a few inches to cover them. 

There were still bullets embedded in the plaster foundations from when Ketch had shown up with the British Men of Letters and half an arsenal, and a scorch mark on the floor of the main room from where the Prince of Hell, Asmodeus had been incinerated by the Archangel Gabriel.   
Shotguns and knives and pistols were still scattered throughout the cutlery drawers and the kitchen cupboards from where the Apocalypse World survivors had stowed them when they were still living in the bunker.   
The cars in the garage gleamed dully, in whatever light was still let in.   
Targets with bullet holes still ripped through them hung silently in the shooting range like listless ghosts.   
There were faint black marks on the floor of room number twenty eight, where a seafoam green Fiat had once been parked. 

There was a hole in the wall of the library from where Castiel had put his hand through the bricks after Dean had startled him.   
The chair that the demon Crowley had once been bound to stood empty, a stray crayon floated somewhere under the shelves.   
There was still blood staining the door of the dungeon where the angel Castiel had traced a rune in his own blood to protect his family from harm.   
Knocked over boxes of paper and records littered the shelves of the archives,   
Deep grooves decorated the walls outside the dungeons where Death’s scythe had scraped against the tiles.   
The toaster that Dean and Sam had used every morning stood on the countertop rather sadly.

Then there were the memories that you couldn’t see.   
The memories of Kevin and his tireless work. The words scribbled on torn, crumpled pieces of paper that looked more like the ravings of a loon than the divinings of a Prophet of the Lord.   
Of Charlie and her brilliant brain and her wicked tongue. Memories of GoT marathons and hour long debates about the scientific accuracies of Star Trek.   
Castiel and his dry humor, the fond smile Dean would get sometimes after he made a particularly sarcastic joke. The times he would sit on Dean’s bed and watch cartoons on his laptop remarking on his interpretations of the allegories within the animated pictures.   
The memories of Jack and his unrelenting optimism. His midnight trips to the kitchen cupboards. His willingness to please.   
How every night, Sam would kneel and pray to an absent god. Until he didn’t anymore. How he’d keep the bunker running smoothly, make sure everyone got enough food and sleep.   
And Dean, blasting his music so loud that it echoed through the hallways. Spending endless hours in the garage with Baby, fixing things that didn’t really need to be fixed. Sitting in the library with Cas or Sam.  
All of them just, being. Co-existing in the same space, all together. Just the way that it was supposed to be. 

All these remnants of a different time.   
A life, a family, a home.   
That’s what this place had been.   
A home.


End file.
